CHAPTER III
THE "INSIDE" GAME
"Well, Tom, I see that you lead off in the batting order," said Bert, asthey sat in his rooms at the close of the day's work.
"Yes," said Tom, "Ainslee seems to think that I am a good waiter, aswell as a pretty fair sprinter, and I suppose that is the reason heselected me."
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" recited Dick, who wasalways ready with an apt quotation.
"Well," laughed Bert, "I don't suppose the poet ever dreamed of thatapplication, but, all the same, it is one of the most important thingsin the game to lead off with a man who has nerve and sense enough towait. In the first place, the pitcher is apt to be a little wild at thestart and finds it hard to locate the plate. I know it's an awfultemptation to swing at a good one, if it is sandwiched in between acouple of wild ones, and, of course, you always stand the chance ofbeing called out on strikes. But at that stage of the game he is morelikely to put over four balls than three strikes, and if you do trotdown to first, you've got three chances of reaching home. A sacrificewill take you down to second, and then with only one man out and twogood batters coming up, a single to the outfield brings you home."
"Then, too, you went around the bases in fifteen seconds flat, the otherday," said Dick, "and that's some running. I noticed Ainslee timing youwith his split-second watch, and when he put it back in his pocket hewas smiling to himself."
"Flynn comes second, I see," said Bert, consulting his list, "and that'sa good thing too. He is one of the best 'place' hitters on the team. Hehas the faculty that made Billy Keeler famous, of 'hitting them wherethey ain't.' He's a dandy too at laying down a bunt, just along thethird-base line. If any man can advance you to second, Flynn can."
"Yes," said Tom, "with Drake up next, swinging that old wagon tongue ofhis, and then Dick coming on as a clean-up hitter, it will have to bepretty nifty pitching that will keep us from denting the home plate."
"Last year the team had a general batting average of .267," chimed inDick. "If we can match that this year, I guess there'll be no complaint.As a matter of fact, however, I'm a little dubious of doing that,especially with old Pendleton off the team. But if we come short alittle there, I am counting on Bert holding down the batters on theother nines enough to make up for it."
"If I get a chance, I'll do my very best," said Bert, "but perhaps Iwon't pitch in a regular game all season. You know how it is with aFreshman. He may have to sit on the bench all the time, while the upperclass pitchers take their turn in the box. They've won their spurs and Ihaven't. They've 'stood the gaff' under the strain of exciting games,and pulled victories out of the fire. I might do it too, but nobodyknows that, and I probably would not be called on to go in the box,except as a last resort. They may believe that I have the curve, butthey are not at all sure that I have the nerve. Winters and Benson aregoing along now like a house afire, and if they are at top speed whenthe season begins I'll see the pennant won or lost from my seat on thebench."
"Neither one of them has anything on you," maintained Tom stoutly. "Ofcourse they are, in a certain sense, veterans, and then, too, they havethe advantage of having faced before many of the players on the otherteams. That counts for a lot, but you must remember that Hinsdale hascaught for the last two years, and he knows these things as well as thepitchers. He knows their weak and their strong points, the ones thatsimply kill a low outcurve, but are as helpless as babies before a highfast one. He could quickly put you on to the batters' weakness. Butoutside of that you've got them faded. You have more speed than Wintersand more endurance than Benson. Neither one of them has a license tobeat you at any stage of the pitching game."
"Perhaps it's your friendship rather than your judgment that's talkingnow, Tom," smiled Bert.
"No," said Dick, "it isn't. Tom's right. You've got everything that theyhave, and then some. Winters' rise ball is certainly a peach, but ithasn't the quick jump yours has just before it gets to the plate. My eyeisn't so bad, but in practice I bat under it every time. Even when Idon't miss it altogether, I hit it on the underside and raise a fly tothe fielders. It's almost impossible to line it out. And your fast highone is so speedy that a fellow backs away from the plate when he sees itcoming. I don't know that your outcurve is any better than Benson's, butyou certainly have it under better control."
"On the dead quiet," he went on, "I'm rather worried about Winters thisyear, anyway. I think he's gone back. He's in with a fast bunch, and Ifear has been going the pace. His fine work in the box last year madehim a star and turned his head. It brought him a lot of popularity, andI'm afraid he isn't the kind that can stand prosperity. He doesn't go athis work in the right spirit this year. You all saw how he shirked theother day when we were training for wind."
They readily recalled the incident to which Dick alluded. The practicehad been strenuous that day, but the coach had been insistent. As a windup, he had called for a run around the track to perfect their wind andendurance, as well as to get off some of the superfluous flesh thatstill interfered with their development. The players were tired, but, asthe trainer didn't ask them to do what he was unwilling to do himself,they lined up without protest and trotted behind him around the track.
At one place, there was a break in the fence which had not yet beenrepaired. Twice they made the circuit of the track, and some of themwere blowing hard, when the relentless leader started on the thirdround. As they came abreast of the break, Winters, with a wink, slippedout of the line and got behind the fence. Here he stayed, resting, whilethe others jogged along. They made two circuits more, and when they cameto where he was, Winters, fresh as a daisy, and grinning broadly,slipped into line again, and trotted along as though nothing hadhappened. The joke seemed certainly on the coach, who hadn't onceturned his head, but pounded steadily along, in apparent unconsciousnessthat one of his sheep had not been following his leader. At the bench,after the sixth round, he slowed up.
"Good work, boys," he said pleasantly, "that makes six full laps for allof us except Winters. We'll wait here, while he takes his other two."
The grin faded from Winters' face, to be replaced by a hot flush, as hiseyes fell before the steady look of the coach. There was no help for it,however. He had been caught "red-handed," and with a sheepish glance athis laughing comrades, he started on his lonely run around the coursewhile they stood and watched him. Twice he made the circuit and thenrejoined his companions. The coach said nothing more, as he felt thatthe culprit had been punished enough, but the story was too good tokeep, and Winters was "joshed" unmercifully by his mates. The incidentdeepened the general respect felt for the coach, and confirmed theconviction that it was useless to try to fool him, as he had "eyes inthe back of his head."
He certainly needed all his keenness, in order to accomplish the task hehad set himself. The time was wearing away rapidly, and before long hewould have to rejoin his own team for the championship season. There hadbeen a good deal of rain, and practice in the field had been impossiblefor days at a time.
To be sure he had the "cage" for use in rainy weather. This was a largerectangular enclosure, perhaps twice as long as the distance from thepitcher's box to home plate. The sides were made of rope that stoppedthe batted balls. There was ample room for battery work, and here, inbad weather, the pitchers and catchers toiled unceasingly, while theother players cultivated their batting eye, and kept their arms limberby tossing the ball about. But, at best, it was a makeshift, and did notcompare for a moment with work in the open air on the actual diamond.And the days that now remained for that were distressingly few.
So he drove them on without mercy. No galley slaves worked harder thanthese college boys for their temporary master. He was bound that not anounce of superfluous flesh should remain on their bones at the beginningof the season. Gradually his work began to tell. The soreness andlameness of the first days disappeared. Arnica and witch hazel were nolonger at a premium. The waistbands went in and the chests stood out.Their eyes grew bright, thei
r features bronzed, their muscles toughened,and before long they were like a string of greyhounds tugging at theleash.
He noted the change with satisfaction. Superb physical condition was thefirst essential of a winning team. His problem, however, was far fromsolved. It was only changed. He had made them athletes. Now he must makethem ball players.
Individually they were that already, in the purely mechanical featuresof the game. They were quick fielders, speedy runners and heavy batters.But they might be all these, and yet not be a winning team. They neededteam work, the deft fitting in of each part with every other, the quickthinking that, in a fraction of a second, might change defeat tovictory.
His quick eye noticed, in the practice games, how far they came short ofhis ideal. Flynn, the other day, when he caught that fly far out incenter, had hurled it into the plate when he had no earthly chance ofgetting the runner. If he had tried for Ames, who was legging it tothird, it would have been an easy out. A moment later Ames counted on asingle.
Then there was that bonehead play, when, with Hinsdale on third andHodge on first, he had given the signal for Hodge to make a break forsecond, so as to draw a throw from the catcher and thus let Hinsdale getin from third. Hodge had done his part all right, but Hinsdale had beenso slow in starting that the catcher was waiting for him with the ball,when he was still twenty feet from the plate.
He hated to think of that awful moment, when, with the bases full, Whitehad deliberately tried to steal second, where Dick was already roosting.The crestfallen way in which White had come back to the bench, amidironical cheers and boisterous laughter, was sufficient guarantee thatthat particular piece of foolishness would never be repeated. Luckily,it had only been in a practice game. Had it happened in a regularcontest, a universal roar would have gone up from one end of the collegeworld to the other, and poor White would never have heard the last ofit.
The coach was still sore from this special exhibition of "solid ivory,"when, after their bath and rubdown, he called the boys together.
"Now, fellows," he said, "I am going to talk to you as though you werehuman beings, and I want you to bring your feeble intelligence to bear,while I try to get inside your brain pans. They say that Providencewatches over drunkards, fools and the Congress of the United States. Ihope it also includes this bunch of alleged ball players. If ever anyaggregation needed special oversight, this crowd of ping-pong playersneeds it. Now, you candidates for the old ladies' home, listen to me."
And listen they did, while he raked them fore and aft and rasped andscorched them, until, when he finally let them go, their faces wereflaming. No one else in college could have talked to them that way and"gotten away with it." But his word was law, his rule absolute, and,behind his bitter tongue, they realized his passion for excellence, hisfierce desire of winning. It was sharp medicine, but it acted like atonic, and every man left the "dissecting room," as Tom called it,determined from that time on he would play with his brains as well ashis muscles.
As the three chums went toward their rooms, they were overtaken by"Reddy," the trainer of the team. With the easy democracy of the ballfield, he fell into step and joined in the conversation.
"Pretty hot stuff the old man gave you, just now," he said, with hiseyes twinkling.
"Right you are," replied Bert, "but I guess we deserved it. I don'twonder that he was on edge. It certainly was some pretty raw baseball hesaw played to-day."
"Sure," assented Reddy, frankly. "It almost went the limit. And yet," hewent on consolingly, "it might have been worse. He only tried to stealone base with a man already on it. Suppose he'd tried to steal three."
The boys laughed. Reddy was a privileged character about the college.The shock of fiery hair, from which he had gained his nickname, covereda shrewd, if uneducated, mind. He had formerly been a big league star,but had fractured an ankle in sliding to second. The accident had onlyleft a slight limp, but it had effectually destroyed his usefulness onthe diamond. As a trainer and rubber, however, he was a wonder, and formany years he had been connected with the college in that capacity. Itwas up to him to keep the men in first-class condition, and he pridedhimself on his skill. No "charlie horse" could long withstand hisministrations, and for strains and sprains of every kind he was famousin the athletic world. His interest in and loyalty to the college wasalmost as great as that of the students themselves. He was in the fullconfidence of the coach, and was regarded by the latter as his righthand. If one was the captain of the college craft, the other was thefirst mate, and between them they made a strong combination. He was anencyclopedia of information on the national game. He knew the battingand fielding averages of all the stars for many years past, and hisshrewd comments on men and things made him a most interesting companion.His knowledge of books might be limited, but his knowledge of theworld was immense. He had taken quite a fancy to Bert and shared theconviction of the coach that he was going to be a tower of strength tothe team. He never missed an opportunity of giving him pointers, andBert had profited greatly by his advice and suggestion. Now, as theywalked, he freed his mind along the same lines followed by the coach alittle earlier.
"That was the right dope that Ainslee gave you, even if it was mixedwith a little tabasco," he said. "It's the 'inside stuff' that counts.I'd rather have a team of quick thinkers than the heaviest sluggers inthe league.
"Why," he went on, warming to his subject, "look at the Phillies when EdDelehanty, the greatest natural hitter that ever lived, was in hisprime. Say, I saw that fellow once make four home runs in one gameagainst Terry of the Brooklyns. I don't suppose that a heavier battingbunch ever existed than the one they had in the league for threeseasons, handrunning. Besides Ed himself, there was Flick and Lajoie,and a lot of others of the same kind, every one of them fence-breakers.You couldn't blame any pitcher for having palpitation of the heart whenhe faced that gang. They were no slouches in the field, either. Now,you'd naturally think that nobody would have a chance against them.Every year the papers touted them to win the pennant, but every year,just the same, they came in third or fourth at the end of the season.Now, why was it they didn't cop the flag? I'll tell you why. It wasbecause every man was playing for himself. He was looking out for hisrecord. Every time a man came to the bat, he'd try to lose the ballover the back fence. They wouldn't bunt, they wouldn't sacrifice, theywouldn't do anything that might hurt that precious record of theirs. Itwas every man for himself and no man for the team, and they didn't havea manager at the head of them that was wise enough or strong enough tomake them do as they were told.
"Now, on the other hand, look at the White Sox. Dandy fielders, but forbatting--why, if they fell in the river they wouldn't strike the water.All around the league circuit, they were dubbed the 'Hitless Wonders.'But they were quick as cats on their feet, and just as quick in knowingwhat to do at any stage of the game. What hits they did get counteddouble. They didn't get men on the bases as often as the Phillies, butthey got them home oftener, and that's what counts when the score isadded up. That sly old fox, Comiskey, didn't miss a point. It was a buntor a sacrifice or a long fly to the outfield or waiting for a base onballs or anything else he wanted. The men forgot about themselves andonly thought of the team, and those same 'Hitless Wonders' won thepennant in a walk.
"Now, that's just the difference between dumb and brainy playing andthat's what makes Ainslee so hot when he sees a bonehead stunt like thatone this afternoon."
"I suppose that you saw no end of that inside stuff pulled off while youwere in the big league," said Tom. "What do you think is the brightestbit of thinking you ever saw on the ball field?"
"Well," said Reddy musingly, "that's hard to tell. I've certainly seensome stunts on the diamond that would make your hair curl. Some of themwent through, and others were good enough to go through, even if theydidn't. It often depends on the way the umpire looks at it. And veryoften it gets by, because the umpire doesn't look at it at all. Many'sthe time I've seen Mike Kelly of the old Chicagos--the receiving end ofthe
ten-thousand-dollar battery--cut the corners at third when theumpire wasn't looking, and once I saw him come straight across thediamond from second to the plate without even making a bluff of going tothird. Oh, he was a bird, was Mike.
"I shall never forget one day when the Chicagos were behind until theycame to the plate for their ninth inning. They were a husky bunch ofswatters and never more dangerous than when they were behind. Well,they made two runs in that inning, tieing the score and then puttingthemselves one to the good. The Bostons came in for their last turn atthe bat and by the time two men were out they had the bases full.One safe hit to the outfield was all they needed, and they sent apinch-hitter to the bat to bring in the fellows that were dancing abouton the bases.
"It was a dreary, misty afternoon, and, from the grandstand you couldhardly see the fielders. Mike was playing right that day, and the man atthe bat sent a screaming liner out in his direction. He saw at a glancethat he couldn't possibly get his hands on it, but he turned around andran with the ball, and, at the last moment, jumped into the air andapparently collared it. He waved his hands as a signal that he had itand made off to the clubhouse. The umpire called the batter out and thegame was over. His own teammates hadn't tumbled to the trick, until Miketold them that he hadn't come anywhere near the ball, and that at thatvery moment it was somewhere out on the playing field. It came outlater, and there was some talk of protesting the game, but nothing evercame of it. When it came to quick work, Mike was certainly 'all wool anda yard wide.'"
The boys did not express an opinion as to the moral quality of thetrick, and Reddy went on:
"Perhaps the slickest thing I ever saw was one that Connie Mack put overon old Cap Anson of the Chicagos, and, believe me, anybody who couldfool him was going some. His playing days are over now, and all you kidsknow of him is by reputation, but, take him by and large, a betterplayer never pulled on a glove. Well, as I was saying, Anson was playingone day in Pittsburgh and Mack was catching against him. It had been agame of hammer and tongs right up to the last inning. The Chicagos, asthe visiting team, came to the bat first in the ninth inning. ThePittsburghs were one ahead and all they needed to win was to hold theChicagos scoreless. Two were out and two on bases when old 'Pop' Ansoncame to the bat. There wasn't a man in the league at that time that apitcher wouldn't rather have seen facing him than the 'Big Swede.'However, there was no help for it, and the twirler put on extra steamand managed to get two strikes on him. The old man set himself for thethird, with fierce determination to 'kill' the ball or die in theattempt. Mack walked up to the pitcher and told him to send in a ballnext time, and then, the instant the ball was returned to him, to putover a strike. The pitcher did as directed, and sent over a wide one.Of course, Anson didn't offer to hit it, but Mack caught it.
"'Third strike,' he said, throwing off his mask and shin-guards, asthough the game were over.
"'Third strike nothing,' growled Anson. 'What's the matter with you,anyway?' and the umpire also motioned Connie back to the plate.
"'Why, wasn't that a strike?' said Mack, coming back to the plate. At thesame instant the pitcher sent a beauty right over the center of therubber. Mack caught it, and before Anson knew the ball had been pitched,the umpire said, 'You're out.'
"Holler? Say, you could have heard him from Pittsburgh to Chicago. Itwent, though. You see, Anson, looking at Connie without his mask orshin-guards, was figuring that he would have to get into all thatharness again, before the game went on. He took too much for granted,and it doesn't pay to do that in baseball. I don't suppose he everforgave Connie for making him look like thirty cents before that holidaycrowd. And I don't suppose that Mack would have taken a thousand dollarsfor the satisfaction it gave him to tally one on the old man.
"You fellows wouldn't believe me, I suppose, if I told you I seen a dogpull some of that inside stuff once? Sure, I ain't fooling, although ofcourse the pup didn't know he was doing it. It was in Detroit when abig game was on and the home team was at the bat. They needed three runsto win and there were two men on bases. The batter lined out a peachbetween left and center. There were no automobiles in those days, but awhole raft of carriages were down back of center field. A big coach dogsaw the ball coming and chased it, got it in his mouth and scooted downunder the bleachers, the left and center fielders yelling to him to dropit and racing after him like mad. He was a good old rooter for the hometeam, all right, though, and, by the time they got it away from him, thewhole bunch had crossed the plate and the game was won. The home teamboys found out whom he belonged to, and clubbed together and got him ahandsome collar.
"Another funny thing I seen one time that makes me laugh whenever Ithink of it," continued Reddy, "was when a high fly was hit to leftfield with three men on bases. It ought to have been an easy out andnine times out of ten would have been. But, as luck would have it, theball slipped through the fielder's fingers and went into the outsideupper pocket of his baseball shirt. He tried desperately to get it out,but it was wedged in so tight he couldn't. All this time the men werelegging it around the bases. At last, Mitchell--that was the fellow'sname--ran in toward third and caught the batter, just as he wasrounding the base on his way to home. He grabbed him and hugged himtight and they fell to the ground together. Say, you'd have diedlaughing if you'd seen them two fellows wrestling, Mitchell trying toforce the other man's hand into his pocket so that the ball could touchhim, and the other fighting to keep his hand out. It was a hard thingfor the umpire to settle, but he finally let the run count on the groundthat Mitchell had no right to interfere with him. Poor old Mitchell wascertainly up against it that day, good and plenty."
By this time they had reached the college dormitory, and the boysreluctantly bade Reddy good-by. They had been immensely amused andinterested by his anecdotes, although they did not altogether agree withhis easy philosophy of life. To Reddy all was fair in love or war orbaseball, provided you could "put it over."
"But it isn't," said Bert, as they went upstairs. "Strategy is one thingand cheating is another. It's all right to take your opponent unawaresand take advantage of his carelessness or oversight. If he's slow andyou're quick, if he's asleep and you're awake, you've got a perfectright to profit by it. Now take for instance that case of Mack andAnson. Whether that was a strike or a ball was a thing to be decidedby the umpire alone, and Anson ought not to have paid any attentionto Mack's bluff. Then, too, because Mack usually put on his mask andshin-guards before the ball was pitched, Anson had no right to assumethat he would _always_ do so. Mack acted perfectly within his rights,and Anson was simply caught napping and had no kick coming.
"But when you come to 'cutting the corners' and pretending that the ballwas caught when it wasn't, that isn't straight goods. It's 'slick,' allright, but it is the slickness of the crooked gambler and the three-cardmonte man. It's playing with marked cards and loaded dice, and I don'tcare for any of it in mine."
"Right you are, old fellow," said Tom, heartily, clapping him on theback, "my sentiments to a dot. I want to win and hate to lose, but I'drather lose a game any day than lie or cheat about it."
Which he was to prove sooner than he expected.
Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball Page 3